


Through Bitter Waters

by Verecunda



Category: Salem's Lot - Stephen King
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Underage Sex, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Three years after finishing with the Lot, the darkness finds them again. But Mark isn’t a child any more, and he has no innocence left to lose.





	Through Bitter Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, summerdayghost! Wishing you all the best for the holidays, and I hope you enjoy this treat.

For a long time, things were quiet. Life, though it could never go back to how it had been, went on. Ben’s new book did all right. The one after that did even better, enough for his agent to write to him about the possibility of author appearances and book-signings in various parts of the country. But he always turned them down. “I’ll get a name for being one of those reclusive kooks if I’m not careful,” he said with a smile. “Salinger minus the genius.” But he didn’t seem to mind. He was happy to fly under the radar.

Life went on for Mark, too. He knew he would never escape the darkness, not completely. It was always there, lurking on the margins of his world, but after they’d purified the Lot it was as if the fire had purged something within him, too, cauterised the wound that had been festering in his soul. The nightmares grew fewer and farther between, and he stopped panicking whenever Ben was out of his sight for more than thirty seconds. He still didn’t speak of it much, but he didn’t avoid the subject if it came up between them. He no longer tried to block it out. Rather, he had now found a way to work it into the pattern of his life. The world had not changed, they had just learned that there was so much more lurking in its shadows than they’d realised.

He remembered Ben saying something like that, years ago, during their cross-country flight from Maine. It had been in one of that endless succession of motel rooms, lying in bed with his cross clutched in his hand, trying to resist his body’s urge to sleep, because he knew that as soon as he shut his eyes, he would see _them_ again… 

He had looked across the room, where Ben was still sitting up at the little desk, silhouetted by the dim bulb of the lamp, writing late, as he did most nights. It must have been pretty early on, before he’d bought that second-hand typewriter in Rhode Island, because Mark remembered how the rapid _scritch-scritch-scratch_ of his pencil had sounded so clear in the dead silence of 1 a.m. He’d wondered before how Ben could just… go on, doing what he’d done before, as if life could ever be normal again. This time, he’d asked the question aloud. Ben had just shrugged and said, “I guess because I have to. These creatures have probably been walking the earth for centuries - millennia even. From prehistoric times, superstition and belief in the supernatural was just a part of everyday life; humans had ways to fight them. That’s something we need to rediscover now, and learn to live with the shadows.”

So that was what they’d done. After the fire had burnt itself out (funny, but the fire services hadn’t been nearly as quick to assemble as they had been in ’51, you’d almost think the rest of Cumberland County was quite happy for Jerusalem’s Lot to disappear off the face of the earth), they’d completed their ugly unfinished business, then packed up and put it all behind them, to get on with living their lives.

Three years later, the darkness found them again.

They were renting a little place just outside Sidewinder, Colorado, where they’d been for nearly a year. Ben was working on another novel. He was still tutoring Mark, who now worked two part-time jobs in town, one in a café, the other in a junk shop. Pretty boring for the most part, but that was how he liked it. Uneventful was good. He’d grown a lot over the last few years, in fits and starts: now he was almost as tall as Ben, and adolescence had spared him the gawkiness it inflicts on so many teenage limbs. He biked into town most days, and Ben had started taking him out in the Citroën on the back roads, ready for a proper learner’s permit. They still kept pretty much to themselves, but they weren’t hermits, and there were plenty of folks in town who they were friendly with. Life was humdrum, but there was peace, more peace than either of them had imagined there could ever be again.

It was a June morning, about a month after Mark’s sixteenth birthday, bright and clear and otherwise unremarkable. Mark got up at the usual time and heard the sound of Ben’s typewriter going in the living room (he usually tried to get in a good hour or so before breakfast), went into the kitchen and stuck two slices of bread in the toaster, then went out front to get the paper. He poured a cup of coffee, buttered his toast, then sat down to flick through the paper, the Denver _Post_ , full of the day’s unremarkable news. 

Then his eyes fell on an article on page twelve, and the crust he was chewing lodged in his throat. His mouth was suddenly and instantly dry. He tried to swallow, but his throat muscles refused to work, leaving him no choice but to spit the half-chewed crust onto the place, hacking on crumbs.

“Ben,” he called.

A moment later, Ben appeared in the kitchen. “Mark? What is it?”

His voice was level, and his face was contained, watchful, somehow expectant, as if he already knew what Mark was going to tell him.

He folded the paper so the article was on top, and pushed it across the table. “Here.”

Slowly, Ben approached the table, glanced once at Mark, then picked up the paper and started to read. It was only a short piece, but Mark watched him closely as his eyes followed each line, almost hearing him absorb each word.

_Authorities in Weld County are investigating the disappearance of the Cameron family of Harston, thirteen miles south of Greeley. The family, consisting of father Robert (40), mother Anne (38), and three children Frances (15), Henry (12) and Steven (11) have been missing for over three weeks. Police were first alerted by family members who reported that telephone calls had gone unanswered and the family home appeared deserted. Weld County has seen an alarming spike in missing persons cases over the last seven months, most of which still remain unsolved. The first reported disappearance…_

When he finished reading, Ben carefully smoothed the paper and laid it back down. His face was still, almost a mask. He looked up, met Mark’s eyes, and understanding passed unspoken between them.

When Ben spoke, his voice was low: “We don’t have to do anything.”

Mark knew that he’d said it for his sake, to shield him from having to relive the horror that had nearly broken him. But he wasn’t a terrified kid any more, the same kid that Ben had had to knock out cold before he got them both killed. He had left that part of himself behind a long time ago.

His mother’s old cross was warm about his neck, and he thought of the vial of holy water in his room, the lengths of ash neatly stacked in their woodshed outside. He realised they had both known all along that this day would come.

“Yes,” he said simply, “we do.”

-

That night, the nightmares returned. They still came, every so often, like an old war wound that twinges when the wind’s in the northeast, but it had been a long time since they had been so vivid, so horrifyingly _real_. Now he saw them again, the red of their eyes burning in the dead, livid white of their faces, their mouths twisted in hideous grins that showed their sharp white teeth, blood gleaming darkly about their mouths. They crowded in at his window, faces he had once known: Danny Glick, Richie Boddin, even Susan, though they’d set her free, they _had_ , he’d watched Ben drive that stake into her heart as she gave those terrible screams and the blood sprayed out black…

and he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, couldn’t scream, he was helpless against the irresistible force of those eyes, begging him, _commanding_ him to open up, let them in, _let them in_ —

Then the landscape of the nightmare tilted and shifted, a kaleidoscope of horror: the godawful crack of his parents’ skulls; Jimmy Cody, stuck through and through and bleeding out across Eva Miller’s basement; Barlow’s eyes burning into his…

The scene shifted again, and there, standing right before him was Ben, hemmed in by the darkness that closed and pressed about him. Then _they_ were there, all around him, white grasping hands fondling him, seizing him, dragging him down. And Mark could do nothing, frozen in place as he watched them fall on Ben, swarming over him until he was out of sight, and he couldn’t bear it, didn’t want to see, because he knew the next thing he would see would be Ben’s face, dead and white like theirs, and he couldn’t no _no NO_

“Mark? _Mark!_ ” The voice came as if from the end of some long dark tunnel. Not the unnatural, insinuating voice of the Undead, but _Ben’s_ voice, full of anxiety and—

—and suddenly he was awake, staring awake. And there was Ben, shaking him, his face above him, full of concern and familiar, naked fear.

“Mark!” he said again, though he couldn’t have missed that Mark’s eyes were open.

Gasping, heart pumping, Mark struggled up into a sitting position. “What…?” Even awake, it took a second or two for the last clinging cobwebs of the nightmare to blow away, and for him to remember where he was. He looked to the left, where his cross lay on the bedside table next to his glasses. And beyond that was his window: securely locked, curtains drawn. No faces looked in. It was all in the past, and Ben was right here, with him.

“You were screaming,” said Ben. He looked shaken to the core. “Christ, I haven’t heard you scream like that since…” 

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Instead he simply opened his arms, as he had on all those nights when Mark had woken them both screaming in his sleep, and Mark moved gratefully into them. Then Ben’s arms were tight about him, shutting out everything else, and Mark rested his head on his shoulder, letting out his breath in a huge gust. Before, at times like this, he’d probably be crying by now, whole body wracked with bitter sobs, smearing tears and saliva and snot over Ben’s T-shirt and too out of his mind with terror even to be embarrassed about it. He wasn’t crying now. He was scared, sure, the fear seeping up like rising damp from the dark places where he’d learned to keep it tamped down, and his whole body was trembling, but his mind was oddly clear, focused on the here and now. 

Ben’s heartbeat was fast and strong against his own, and Mark wound his arms around his neck, burrowing as close as he humanly could. He could feel the warmth of Ben’s skin through the cotton of his T-shirt, and the scent of his skin, frowzy from bed, was strong in Mark’s nostrils where his face was turned into the crook of his neck. Familiar. Alive.

A powerful, helpless wave of love swept through him: bright, so vividly bright, and so keen it made him ache. It was the love that had saved them both so many times, kept each of them going when they were on the brink of giving up hope for themselves. In that moment, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to lift his head and press his mouth to Ben’s.

At once, he was flung unceremoniously back into the past. It had been one night, in some motel room - somewhere in Illinois, or maybe Missouri, he couldn’t quite remember. A night he’d shoved straight down into the darkest, obscurest recesses of his memory. 

It was the first time he’d had that nightmare about Ben. He’d woke up screaming then too, kicking wildly free of the stranglehold of the cheap sweaty sheets, and found himself being shaken awake by Ben. And as he’d done so many times, he’d found himself crying and clutching to Ben desperately, while Ben had shushed him, rocking him as he had the night his folks were killed. He was still only half-awake, the nightmare still clinging to him with spidery, tenacious fingers, and through the horror of it all the only thing that had made any sense was the beat of Ben’s pulse in his throat, that steady rhythm of a heart that was beating: warm, vital, _alive_. His impulse then had been to press his lips against it, then, turning awkwardly in Ben’s arms, his lips had clumsily sought out Ben’s own.

It had taken something less than a tenth of a second for the full magnitude of his mistake to come crashing down on him. First he’d felt Ben freeze; then in the space of the next heartbeat, he was out of Ben’s arms - half thrust to arm’s length by Ben himself, half jerking back of his own volition. Then, for another second that had lasted about a hundred years, they’d just stared at each other, Ben’s eyes wide with shock, his own with horror. His brain went blank, while his body kicked into the hot overdrive of panic: heart pumping, pulse thudding dark and heavy against his temples, all his insides contracting, skin prickling hot and cold at once.

“Ben,” he’d croaked out, barely hearing his own voice over the klaxon sounds in his brain, “oh God, Ben, I…”

He had no idea what he was saying. He was choosing words at random, anything to caulk over the rift of humiliation he’d just torn open between them. He had sudden visions of Ben calling it off, dropping him off with those relatives in Michigan that they’d talked about but decided not to get in touch with, going it alone and leaving Mark behind. The rational core that still lingered at the back of his mind told him he was being stupid, but he suddenly found himself, after all that had happened, faced with the unthinkable prospect of losing Ben for good. 

And, just to compound his humiliation, he felt fresh tears well up and spill hotly down his cheeks.

For those few seconds Ben had continued to stare at him with something close to horror, but at the sight of those tears, his whole demeanour changed, softened. Then he was reaching out, drawing Mark back into a hug, a markedly parental hug, as he rubbed his back and made soothing sounds.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, it’s okay, Mark. It’s okay. I get it. You need to be close, and it just came out wrong. It happens to a lot of people when they’re suffering and not thinking straight. It’s all right. I’m right here, Mark, I’m not going to leave you.”

It was a convenient fiction, probably even a necessary one. Their first priority then had been survival, and all they had left was each other. They couldn’t afford to let themselves get torn apart by something as stupid as a traumatised kid’s first attack of hormones. Maybe Ben had even believed what he was saying. Whatever the truth, by an unspoken agreement they’d put the whole incident to one side and gotten on with the more pressing business of surviving.

Now, as before, Ben put him at arm’s length. Only this time things were different, because just before it happened, Mark felt the fugitive beginning of a response, the lightest pressure of Ben’s lips against his, before Ben seized his arms and pushed him away.

“Mark,” he said, voice hoarse, “no.”

“Ssh,” whispered Mark. His heart was racing in his chest, but at the same time, he was filled with a cool, overwhelming calm. The kiss had been an impulse, but not a reckless one. He reached out, touching Ben’s shoulders lightly but firmly, determined not to let him throw him off. “I love you, Ben.”

“You know I can’t,” said Ben. “For God’s sake, Mark, you’re only—”

“I’m sixteen,” Mark cut in. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re still underage,” Ben retorted. 

Mark gave a grave nod. “I know. But I need you, Ben. I need you, and you need me.”

Ben gave a tormented sigh, and dragged his fingers through his hair. When he looked up again, he looked faintly despairing. “For fuck’s sake, Mark, it’s my responsibility to look after you, not—”

Abruptly, he fell off, and Mark wondered what had been poised there on the tip of his tongue. _Hurt you? Corrupt you? Fuck you up beyond recovery?_ Whatever it was, surely Ben must know it was impossible. Mark had no innocence left to corrupt. It had died four years ago, along with the Lot.

He’d never really thought much about girls - let alone boys - before, wrapped up in his own head, content with his own company and his magazines and monster kits, unconsciously searching for the other world within the shadows of the one he knew. And after, he’d thought about them even less. Even recently, after things had become more settled, he’d never given any serious consideration to dating or anything, despite Ben’s subtle verbal nudges in the direction of Julie Morris, who shared his shift down the café.

Not that Ben seemed in any hurry to dive into another relationship either. Mark had witnessed him politely fob off the attentions of more than one woman in town since they’d come here. Maybe the prospect scared him. He rarely talked about Miranda, and almost never of Susan. Maybe that was more than enough losses for one lifetime. Maybe it was that, as much as Mark’s age, that made Ben hesitate now.

Was he _in_ love with Ben? He didn’t know. It seemed too small a term - too limited - to encompass what Ben was to him. Ben was his world; he loved him, deeply and desperately. And right now, he wanted him - needed him. And whatever Ben might say, he needed Mark just as much.

The simple fact was that they were each all the friends and family the other had left in the world. So why not all the rest?

Ben still refused to meet his eyes. There was agony in his face, as if he’d come to the same conclusion himself, but was still trying hard to resist it. To put him out his misery once and all, Mark said softly and deliberately, “Ben.”

Now Ben looked at him, really looked at him. Mark met his eyes, steady and unflinching, to show him that this wasn’t a stupid childish impulse, he understood exactly what he was asking of him.

For what seemed like an eternity, Ben’s eyes searched his face. Time seemed - not so much to stand still - but to expand. The space between them drew taut, humming like a live wire, potent with significance and the sense of being on the brink of something irrevocable. Mark had only ever felt something like this once before, and that was when he’d turned to meet Ben’s eyes for the first time on Eva Miller’s porch. It had nearly knocked the breath out of him then, and it had the same effect on him now.

And it was the same for Ben. Mark saw it in the way his eyes widened, pupils going wide and black, heard it in the way his breath grew fast and shallow.

“Come here,” he said roughly, and the next thing Mark knew, they were together. Ben’s arms crushed him to his chest, his unshaven cheek thrilling against Mark’s own as their mouths met again and, this time, fastened together.

It was only Mark’s first proper kiss, not counting that disastrous one-sided thing all those years ago, and now he had time to appreciate the sensations that sparked through him. Ben’s lips, surprisingly soft as they pressed against his and nudged them apart, the warm wetness of Ben’s tongue slipping into his mouth and moving against his own. It was like someone had lit a touch-paper at the back of his brain. White lightning raced along every nerve, burst behind his eyes. He gasped, the sound swallowed by Ben’s mouth, and clutched tighter to Ben’s shoulders as he threw himself into the kiss. Ben’s mouth was hot, breath burning straight down into the pit of Mark’s stomach, and he tasted of something that didn’t have a name, as individual to him as a fingerprint. Mark searched it out, exploring every corner of his mouth, wanting everything of Ben’s that he could taste.

“ _I love you_ ,” he breathed into Ben’s mouth between kisses. Ben drew a sharp breath, then he was saying it back:

“I love you, too, Mark. God, I love you, too.”

Before Mark quite knew where he was at, he was in Ben’s lap, clambering over him, knees spread on either side of his legs. Ben was patient with him, hands coming up to steady him, one sinking into his hair as the other hooked around his waist. Mark kissed him again and again, and he kissed back with the same desperation, until they were just trading the same hot, thick air between them, dizzy with breathlessness.

The heat was building inside him too, and with a jolt Mark realised how hard he already was. The ache of it throbbed right through his whole body, right to the extremities until his toes curled. He groaned, and groaned louder still when he shifted his hips and felt that Ben was just as hard as he was. Experimentally, he angled his hips, pressing them flush together, hard and hot even through two layers of cotton pants, and he breathed in Ben’s muffled “ _Shit_ ,” with a warm feeling of accomplishment.

Without conscious thought, but with full understanding, he slid his hands over Ben’s shoulders and down his back, gathering up handfuls of his T-shirt and pulling it up. Ben took the hint and let go of him long enough to pull the whole thing over his head. As soon as that hindrance was out of the way, Mark moved his hands back to Ben’s torso, moving them greedily over his skin and savouring every inch, learning the shape of his muscles just beneath the skin, the strong ridges of his shoulder-blades, and he smiled as a shiver passed through Ben’s whole frame beneath his touch.

After that, the next logical step was to get them both completely naked. He was burning up from the inside out, every touch, every kiss stoking a fire deep inside him. Every square inch of his skin was begging for every square inch of Ben’s, straining for the white heat he knew must be blazing within Ben’s body too. He was sweating: a true sweat now, not that clammy dew from before. He shifted, and they both groaned again. Then they gave the same breathless laugh, foreheads pressed together.

Catching his eye, Ben flashed him a brief grin, cupping Mark’s cheek with his palm. “Still sure?”

Mark smiled back, and turned his head to press a kiss against Ben’s palm, tasting salt. “Still sure.”

Ben seemed satisfied at last, and kissed him again. Mark kissed back with everything he had, wondering how the hell he’d managed to live so long without this. Dimly astonished at his own assurance, he moved his hand down to the front of Ben’s pants, moving it slowly till Ben actually growled. He dislodged Mark long enough to shuck the pants off, and Mark was rewarded with a clear view of his cock, standing upright and swollen dark.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he freed himself nimbly from his own pajamas, and even though the air in his room was warm, he still gasped a little as it hit his naked skin. His hands remained steady, but his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he reached for Ben again, letting him lower them down onto the mattress. It dipped sharply beneath the weight of them both, and as his head sank back into the pillow, he smiled up at Ben. Ben quirked a smile back at him, eyes dark in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He ducked his head and laid another kiss, quickly, against Mark’s neck, then another to the underside of his jaw, before brushing a whole trail of them down his chest.

From there, it was all a matter of instinct. Ben’s weight pressed down on him, exhilarating, and Mark held onto him for dear life. Ben’s skin was hot and smooth beneath his fingers, and the more of it he touched, the more he wanted to touch. He swept his palms up the length of Ben’s back, out along his shoulders, down his arms. He could feel how the muscles tensed and moved beneath the skin, and it made him think of how those same muscles had worked as Ben had broken open the root cellar door, and of the blue-white light that had wreathed his limbs.

There was no light now - at least not outwardly - but the feeling was the same. He could feel the same energy as Ben touched him, infinitely gentle - almost cautious still - the same feeling of strength and certainty. _This_ was what he wanted. As long as they were together like this, that light would burn, and nothing else could touch them.

He arched his neck to lay a kiss of his own to Ben’s neck, and the groan Ben gave in response was one of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard in his life. Their bodies moved together like magnets, over and around each other, till at last they found themselves lying on their sides and facing each other.

“What now?” Mark asked, panting.

Ben smiled, rubbing circles into the jut of Mark’s hipbone. “Anything you like. There’s no rush.”

That was easy enough. “Touch me?”

“Sure.”

The next thing Mark knew, he was being gathered up in Ben’s arms and rolled over, onto his other side. Ben’s body curved protectively around his, and Mark could feel the hard beating of his heart against his spine. But he barely had a chance to catch his breath, let alone appreciate the closeness of their new position, before Ben’s hand closed around him.

Up till now, jerking off had been, for Mark, a fairly matter-of-fact thing. He’d accepted it as one of his body’s natural processes, and with the exception of his father’s occasional attempts at man-to-man talks on the birds and the bees (human physiology was just a bit too messy and unpredictable for Henry Petrie), he hadn’t seen much point in getting embarrassed over it. It was just something that happened and needed taking care of, that’s all.

Having Ben do it to him was a completely different experience. Even as unwelcome snatches of memory escaped through the cracks in his brain - Barlow’s taunt - _you will enter my church as choirboy_ castratum - and all the dark threats that had lurked behind it - Ben held him securely, his palm hot and rough as he stroked him. As if he’d sensed what memories Mark was trying to keep at bay, his body curled even closer around his, as if to shut out everything out there that had any thought of hurting him. His body felt solid and strong against Mark’s, and at the feel of it, Mark could feel the energy flare and pulse between them. He felt it now, as he’d felt it then, in the moment they’d clasped hands in the darkness. Now it passed between them through their sheer closeness, diffusing through their skin, binding them together.

“Ben,” he gasped, turning his head blindly. “Ben, please…”

Ben’s intake of breath was sharp in his ear. “Mark—” But there was no argument or protestation in his voice now, only a raw sound that spoke to the need currently coursing through Mark’s bloodstream and sent it into spate. With his free arm he crushed Mark’s frame to himself, his other hand now tilting Mark’s chin so he could kiss him fiercely, almost savagely. His grip was now almost too tight, and Mark could already feel a crick forming in his neck from the awkward angle his head was at, but he took it all. He’d take everything Ben had to give him. Even the discomfort was all sensation, proof that he and Ben were here, alive, together.

When Ben finally broke the kiss, he said hoarsely, “Turn over.”

Mark didn’t need to be told twice. He twisted in Ben’s arms, turning over till he was on his stomach. For a fraction of a second he felt exposed and embarrassed, but that quickly melted away in the greater heat possessing him. This was happening, really happening. His heart pounded against the mattress. Prickles of anticipation and apprehension raced, sweet and sour, up and down his spine.

He could feel Ben raised up behind him, one hand braced on the back of Mark’s thigh. Then he seemed to stall.

“I’m going to need something,” he said, half to himself. “I can’t just go shoving in.”

Mark nodded. Made sense. “Vaseline? There’s some in that drawer in the nightstand.”

“Yeah,” said Ben, after thinking it over for a second. “Yeah, that might work.”

Mark felt him lean across him, heard the drawer open and the rummaging inside. Then Ben was back where he was, and his hand was on the back of Mark’s leg again, familiar and reassuring.

“Tell me if it gets too much,” he murmured, and Mark nodded, hands curling into the sheets beneath him.

The first cold touch of the Vaseline came as a shock, but it was quickly dispelled, warming as Ben’s fingers rubbed it onto him, _into_ him. Something about the idea of Ben’s fingers inside him had been unattractive, but now the actual feel of it caused Mark to gasp and clench, which in turn made Ben groan. His fingers felt strangely big inside him as they worked him open, slowly, carefully, and Mark couldn’t help but flash mentally ahead, wondering how his cock was going to feel, how it was even going to _fit_.

At last, he couldn’t stand it any more, and shifted restlessly against the sheets. “Please - now.”

He couldn’t see Ben’s face, but he could feel his frown in the way he laid a hand against the small of his back, and in the way he said, “I need you to be ready.”

“I’m ready now,” Mark said, biting down on a sob of frustration. “I just - I need you now, Ben. Please.”

“All right,” Ben whispered, then laid a kiss against the nape of his neck. “All right.” 

Then he pulled away, and Mark heard the shuffle of movement, and heard the short, bitten-off grunt that signalled that Ben was getting himself ready, and he gripped harder at the sheets. Then Ben was holding his waist, breath a hot rasp against Mark’s neck. Then he was lined up, and he was pressing against him, then oh God, oh _fuck_ — he was _in_ him.

He couldn’t suppress the groan that forced its way out of him. Ben’s cock felt impossibly big, splitting him in two, and in those first few seconds he could feel nothing but an acute burning and stretching that had him hissing and clenching every muscle in his body to resist the intrusion.

“Mark?” Ben’s hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

With an effort, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just need… need a minute.”

He had anticipated there would have to be some pain to begin with. The physical shock of it had taken him aback, but he had expected it. So he forced his attention away from his body’s reaction and onto the facts. Any pain Ben caused him would be involuntary, and there would be no more of it than he could help. Tensing up would only make things worse. He had to help Ben, let his body acclimatise to this new sensation.

Slowly, he uncurled his fists from the sheets and willed his body to relax. He was suddenly, intensely aware of every individual muscle, every nerve and tendon, all of them tense and stiff as steel wires. If he couldn’t relax them, he’d never be comfortable. He closed his eyes and inhaled, long and deep, let the calm wash through him, spread through all his limbs to the ends of his fingers.

At last, the tension began to ebb out of him, each muscle slackening one by one. And as they did, the discomfort paled, the resistance weakened, until suddenly Ben sank deeper inside him, and they both moaned aloud.

Ben’s hand squeezed his shoulder again. “Okay?”

He twisted his head, offered Ben a brief smile. “Yeah.”

Ben gathered him close, so close you couldn’t even fit a knife-blade between their bodies. Mark arched his neck, baring his throat, and Ben’s mouth covered it, cherishing the living pulse that throbbed just beneath the skin. Then, slowly, he started to move, and Mark gasped as the pain was shot through with a sudden bolt of pleasure.

At first he just stayed still, not knowing what to do, letting Ben take the lead; but pretty soon this wasn’t enough - wasn’t nearly enough - so he raised himself up on his hands and knees, pushing back, and he and Ben gave the same hoarse shout at the sensation that ripped through them both. Soon they were moving together, in a constant, ever-building rhythm. Whiteness burned within him, a counterpoint to the pressure building up in his cock, threatening (or was it promising?) to burst and burn them both up along with it.

“ _Mark._ ” Ben’s voice was rawer than Mark had ever heard it, and with one hand he reached down and clasped his fist about Mark’s own where it clutched the edge of his blanket. “Fuck - Mark. Is this it - is this what you need?” And punctuated the question with an especially on-point thrust.

Mark’s breath was coming now in great heaving sobs, but he turned his head and found Ben’s mouth. He kissed him desperately, greedily, for the sole reason he couldn’t bear not to be kissing him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasped. “Yes. You feel so good, Ben. So good…”

The white light blazed freely through him. He wanted it to burn him up, consume him. Consume them both, melt them together once and for all till there was no distinction between them and they were one, invincible against everything else.

And Ben understood, felt it too. A shudder wracked his body as Mark whispered to him, then he was whispering back - “I love you, Mark; God, _I love you_ ” - mouthing the words against his mouth, his cheek, his shoulder, his back. He set a furious pace that dashed all the air from their lungs, so there were no more words; there was only the heat, and the light - blazing, crackling between them like lightning. It bore them up, carried them over the edge, and as Ben gave one last savage thrust, it burst, sending them into freefall as they collapsed together with a shout.

For a long time Mark didn’t trust himself to move. He was content to drift, absorbing all that had just happened. At some point Ben had pulled the covers over them, and was now lying on his back with one arm over his eyes, dozing - or maybe just wiped out. Mark wasn’t sure, but he was happy just to lie here for now, curled into Ben’s side, one cheek resting against his chest as he felt Ben’s heartbeat grow slow and deep in tandem with his own. A comforting rhythm, like the steady hum of the Citroën’s engine on those nights they’d found themselves still on the road long after dark, a reminder of the miles they were putting between themselves and the Lot. It was a strange sort of exhaustion: not sleepy, he was totally alert, but it was total. He felt boneless, clear and raw, as if he’d been scoured inside and out.

He was also aware that he was slightly too hot now. There was a twinge in his back, too, and whenever he moved, he still felt the lingering burn of stretched muscles. He was also aware that the sheets were somewhat damp beneath them. Despite these unpleasant physical side-effects, however, he found he didn’t mind very much. For now, everything was all right.

Eventually, Ben stirred, his whole body turning towards Mark even before he was fully awake. “Hey,” he murmured, wrapping an arm round Mark’s shoulders at once. “How are you?”

“Fine,” replied Mark with a smile. “Bit sore still, but that’ll pass.” He studied Ben’s face. “You okay?”

“You mean, apart from feeling like Humbert Humbert?” said Ben, deadpan, but then he smiled. “Come here.”

He pulled Mark into his arms, practically on top of him, and kissed him. Mark kissed back, relieved. Only when they broke apart for air did Ben let him go, but even then he continued to hold him close, his chin resting on the top of Mark’s head.

“Listen, Mark,” he said, after a few minutes had elapsed in silence, “if you ever meet someone you like-”

“There’ll never be anyone else,” said Mark. “Only you.”

It wasn’t a romantic declaration. It was just the truth.

“All right,” said Ben, and Mark could see that he understood, that he knew it as well as Mark knew it himself. But he still seemed to feel duty-bound to go on: “But if you do meet someone - someone more your own age - don’t think you have to stick with me because you have to. I won’t hold you prisoner. Whatever happens, you’ll always have me, however you need me.”

Mark nodded, agreeing. “Whatever happens.”

Outside, darkness lay thick against his window. Somewhere out there, all the creatures of the night were on the world and at the height of their power. But for now, Mark was calm. Soon they’d be on the road again, plunging into the darkness once more. There was fear, yes, but it was a galvanising fear, the kind that could be channelled and converted into positive action, not the brainless, paralysing terror he had known before. That was behind him now. He could feel the light simmering within him again, in them both, as it had when they defeated Barlow. Now it bound them together again, ready to carry them through whatever lay ahead.

“You and me,” he said, echoing his own words from long ago. He reached out, found Ben’s hand and took it. “Always.”


End file.
